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THE RUINED STATUES 



AND 



OTHER POEMS. 



33^ 



A' 



THE 



RUINED STATUES 



AND 



OTHER POEMS. 



LOUISE BILLINGS SPALDING. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
1871. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



Mcttbnaleb jjedicatctt 



TO 



MY HUSBAND, 



JOHN LEWIS SPALDING, 

U. S. ARMY. 




CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Ruined Statues 13 

Tempest, the Black Captive 22 

The Old Homestead . . . . . . , .30 

Searching for God ........ 33 

The Star . . , . . . . . • • 35 

The Ghost Ring 37 

Indian Summer .40 

Memories 42 

When I would be Remembered 44 

Night 46 

The Cawing of a Crow ....... 49 

The Old Brood-Nest • • 53 

The Withered Leaf 55 

The Messenger • • 57 

Alone 59 

Death's Summons ........ 62 

The Old Hulk . . . . . . . . . 64 

(7) 



8 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Private's Death-Bed 66 

Butterflies 69 

Oh for a Cot in a Sweet, Wild Dell 71 

Heart-Hunger ......... 73 

The Roses .......... 75 

Thicket Flowers . . . . . . . '77 

Born ........... 79 

Jealousy . . . . . . . . . .81 

The Diver 83 

The Rustle of the Trees . . ' 85 

The Woodland Flower . . . " . . . .88 

Reverie .......... 90 

Summer .......... 92 

A Dirge to the Old Year ....... 94 

Young Moth ......... 96 

Voices from Home . . .• . . . . .98 

The Dead Bee ......... 100 

Winter .......... 102 

Ashby Hall . . 103 

The Little Blasted Bud . . . . . . .105 

The Flit of the Bats 106 

Sea-Mews .......... 108 

On the Death of General Lyon . . . . . .112 

The Spider's Web . . . . . . . -115 

Nature's Series . . . . . .. . •117 

The Bow of Promise . . . . . . . .119 

The Stars . . . . . . . . . ,121 

Flower- Written Dreams . . . . . . .123 

Let Him Sleep where He Fell . . . . . .124 



CONTENTS. Q 



PAGE 

The Maniac Lover's Confession .126 

The Old Man's Phantoms 130 

O Roses, why do you Fade 132 

The Old Mill 133 

Old Faces 1^5 

The Beggar's Death-Bed 138 

Spring Birds 140 

The Old Year . 142 

The Wicket-Gate ,44 

There is no Death 145 

The Touch of a Parting Hand 148 

He will not Ask for my Soiled Robe 150 

Affliction's Mission ^^^ 

I Know .... TP.I 





APOLOGY. 



Perhaps it is only just to the public that I offer them a word 
of apology for thus thrusting before them these faulty, illy-clothed 
children of my brain. 

They are not simply ideal creations to me, but actual, living 
forms, that have h9vered about my life, flitting like true angels of 
mercy through my solitude, rendering this fever-dream existence 
endurable. 

At twilight and at morn they are with me, possessed of voices 
and identity. What they have been to me they can never be to 
another; but, as I send them forth from the heart-nest all im- 
perfectly fledged as they are, I entreat of the great public to be 
magnanimous, and bear with their imperfections, that in after- 
years they may not return to reproach me with the soiled, be- 
draggled wings of a baffled career. 




THE RUINED STATUES. 

There came a morn, a soft and balmy morn, 
The red-bird sun sat on an eastern hill. 

And plumed its wing upon the placid dawn. 
That slumbered on so strangely and so still. 

The sky swept low her arms of ether blue, 
And clasped the upturned faces of each hill. 

Affright with wonder at the wild, rare charms 
Called into being by some dauntless will. 

Oh, such glad scenes !- Such music ! All the air. 

Seemed joyous, trembling with its sense of bliss. 
The flowers unfurled their bosoms bright and sweet. 

And wooed the insect lovers for a kiss. 

The dove sat coojng like a moon-drop pale. 
Beneath the shadow of the vulture's wing; 

The lamb fawned harmless of the fatal spite 
That haunts the nature of the forest-king. 

2 ■■ (13) 



14 



THE RUINED STATUES. 



Ambrosial breezes trailed their perfumed robes, 
And groves and grottoes welcomed to decoy ; 

The sea put up her wave lips to be kissed ; 
The air was musiC; and each sense was joy. 

The Night sat brooding o'er the infant earth, 
Wrapped in her glittering plaid of afghan wild, 

And laid her dusky cheek in fond caress 

Against the young one of the sleeping child. 

Thus, Eden toileted to greet its lord, 

God fashioned man, his omniscience to proclaim. 
And breathed into his lungs the breath of life, 

And lit within a torch of deathless flame. 

And unto him the mighty Maker said, 

" O man 1 thyself thy master's crowning art ; 

An evil lurks e'er near thee; oh, beware. 
Lest woe and ruin seize upon thy heart." 

Then Adam's soul grew heavy in his breast. 
Within his sad eyes brooded discontent; 

His hungry heart was filled with •yearnings strange, — 
The good Lord fathomed what these yearnings meant. 

The red-bird sun, v^dth flutter and with flame. 
Still sat swinging in its ring of gold ; 



THE RUINED STATUES. 15 

When from a couch of roses came a pair, 
Like Him, in feature — wondrous to behold. 

A youth with curling rings of ebon hair. 

And limbs fair-moulded, roundly shaped, and bright, 
And great eyes beaming with inquiring gaze, 

Like infant's when it first beholds the light. 

And by his side a rosy, dimpled form, 

Its throbbing outlines yet but dimly seen ; 

Between the meshes of her golden hair. 

That glimmered like a mist in morning sheen. 

One little foot, like softly-chiseled pearl. 
Lay half imbedded in the flowers so fair ; 

Her dimpled hands, like milk-white daffos blown, 
Held back the curtain of her long, bright hair. 

Oh, never shone the sun on sight so rare. 

As from the milk-faced roses forth they came, 

The sunbeams flashing through her rippling hair, 
Like sparkling fire-flies in a restless flame. 

They lay on beds of gorgeous tropic flowers. 

Where scented breezes swayed the long, wild brakes, 

And brightly-plumaged birds of paradise 
Were mirrored in the placid, sleeping lakes. 



1 6 THE RUINED STATUES. 

At morn they laved in fragrant, balmy dew, 
And dried them with the cactus' silky hair, 

And sipped their nectar from bright woodland cups, 
And ate from bowls of sweet magnolia rare. 

At noon-day they would steal along the groves. 

And rock in hammocks, lifted by the breeze. 
Where wild bees preyed upon the willing flowers. 

And birds flashed flame-like through the waving trees- 
Strange music from the ocean, weird and wild, 

Floating from liquid harps of fretted spray. 
Plucked into melody by fitful winds. 

That slept in emerald sea-troughs through the day. 

While muses^ hours, and graces, lithe and small, 
Danced gleefully upon the waving leaves, 

Their light feet tinkling on the emerald floors. 
Like pattering rain-drops on the mossy eaves. 

These bright young beings, full of youth and life, 

Gazed with wonder into each other's eyes; 
Beneath their young lids broke a fonder light. 
And love was born from that caressing sight, 
To elevate and to etherealize. 

Pure offspring of these new and guileless lives, 
That rosy infa.nt born'ne'er more to die. 



THE RUINED STATUES, 

It quaffed the milk of heaven from holy skies, 
And lifted all the senses up on high. 

Nursed by the muses and the graces fair, 
Bright children of the upper welkin art, 

They taught it all the craft of rare archery. 
And made its mark the tender human heart. 

Young Eve lay dreaming in her bower of moss \ 
Of young blown roses was her pillow wrought, 

Spun o'er with drapery of the finest lace, 

That night had woven of the mist she'd caught. 

Soft, pulpy fruitage dropped their blushing wealth, 
And creamy lilies held their vases white ; 

All Nature vied in one glad rivalry. 

And bowed in homage to those beings bright. 

The sunlight fluttered in warm, waving flocks. 
Like yellow birds in summer's golden dream. 

And settled o'er her graces, fair and young. 
Until she glowed like chiseled morning beam. 

A note of music, full of unknown chime. 
Awoke the little dreamer in her bower. 

She caught the gleam of splendors undefined. 
Entranced by music of such wondrous power. 



17 



1 8 THE RUINED STATUES. 

The sorcerer spake, that voice so smooth and bland 
Ensnared her senses only half awake. 

fie told her that the great and stern Unseen 

Had made conditions that He knew she'd break. 

He told her of the knowledge, strange and weird, 
That lay enfolded 'neath the silken rind, 

And bade her haste the magic prize to gain. 

And taste, and see, for now they both were blind. 

He held the tempting morsel to her lips. 

Swayed by the sorcery of his matchless eyes. 
Forgetting all, save one wild, yearning wish. 

That she might see, and thus be great and wise,— 

She caught the glowing treasure to her breast. 
That throbbed with eager, palpitating joy. ' 

She pressed the fatal lure unto her lips. 
And ate, alas ! to ruin and destroy. 

The calm-browed sky threw oh a mourning veil ; 

The thunders bellowed through the ocean surge ; 
The snowy roses into crimson blushed ; 

The cooing vespers shrieked a frantic dirge. 

Then perfect bliss shot upward from the heart. 
Like silver rocket in its heavenward flight. 



THE RUINED STATUES. 



19 



She feared the strange, weird knowledge lately gained, 
And shrank and shivered with a vague affright. 

Thus Adam found his peerless, blushing bride, 
And missed the smile that made her once so fair. 

He sought to woo her from her fearful spell ; 

She wound the screen of her long, brilliant hair 

About her fair proportions, once her artless pride. 

And then she told him the wild, frantic tale 

Of the strange knowledge she had lately gained. 

Her sad tears fell like showers of pearly hail ; 

Her voice, once merry, now in pleading strained, — 

That he would eat, and that dark knowledge gain. 

Then Adam ate ; and from that moment wild 
(With purity defaced, and honor stained), 

God hurled his curses 'gainst his erring child. 

God in his car effulgent sought his own. 

And called his son, who trembling shrank away. 

He saw the screen of fig-leaves, and a moan 
Broke out like piercing death-throes on the day. 

His master-work had failed him in the test, 
A dim alloy ran through the magic clay : 

To rid it of its canker, make it pure, 
God saw but one relentless, certain way. 



20 THE RUINED STATUES. 

He saw, through unborn ages, the hard road 
That led to rescue from that fatal flaw ; 

That perfect cleansing of his faulty clay- 
Was only gained hy friction^ s sternest law. 

He muffled the wild, longing love that beamed 
Within the depths of his immortal eyes ; 

Then gave the chisel to Necessity, 

And bade him carve owt pure d^wd, perfect lives. 

The grim old workman took the mystic tool, 
And drove his subjects to his studio gray. 

The great, good Artist, with his woe supreme, 
In untold anguish slowly turned away. 

Necessity sat within his studio dark ; 

His soul was clouded, and his vision, Sin ! 
His rusting chisel by him idly lay j 

Despair was written on his visage thin. 

And crouching low he sighed, '^ Oh, what can I, 
Without a model hovci my Master's hand? 

My dim eyes find no canker in this clay j 

His w^orks are glorious, and His subjects grand." 

Then, out from chaos of despair and doubt, 
A model, perfect from the realm above. 



THE RUINED STATUES. 21 

Was lent to guide the chisel, to redeem 
The mined statues of the Maker's love. 

That model, Jesus Christ, the Holy Lamb. 

' Through Hijn alone could fallen mankind rise. 
When Earth had photographed his image pure, 
God called him hence to grace the sacred skies. 

Necessity is bowed with toil and years, 
And still he sits and chisels day by day ; 

His meat is of regret and hot, wild tears, 
And yet he cannot, dare not, spare the clay. 

Through cringing sinews, and through writhing pains, 
That idXdXfiaw his hand seeks to unfast. 

He chisels on through slowly sliding Time, 
Until God's statues shall be pure at last. 



TEMPEST, THE BLACK CAPTIVE. 

When Time was young, and unborn ages stood, 
Like unhewfi statues in the mystic block ; 
When infant life, then struggling through its course, 
Had not yet taken the human form divine. 

When strange gods reigned with undisputed sway, 
Untrammeled by our earthly ways and rules ; 
The sky gazed forth with all her azure eyes, 
Hungering for the young, unfolding world. 

Within a realm in mystery now draped. 
Tempest, a brilliant, mighty god, held sway ; 
Apollo's grandeur was not more supreme. 
Or fearless Mars, in daring, warlike power. 

His fame is carved on ether tablets high, 
And filed among the lore of mighty gods ; 

(22) 



TEMPEST, THE BLACK CAPTIVE. 23 

The lost Pleiad, may that not yet be proved 

One of the seven records of time's ^^ seven days'" ? 

One day has passed, its history complete, 
The six unwritte7i star voluj7ies remain; 
May not posterity, aided by these. 
Be helped to know God's days, as they go by? 

Tempest, in armor of rare, burnished light. 
Once on pursuit of fiery meteors wild ; 
When his weird game fled earthward in the chase, 
He followed in its burning, gleaming track. 

He neared the earth ; the quiet ocean lay 
Wrapped in a liquid sheet in calm repose ; 
When strangely sweet and wild arose a strain, — 
A siren, singing in her grotto green. 

A siren singing in her grotto by the sea. 
Upon a couch of long-plushed, scented moss ; 
She warbled sweetly to the tranquil waves, 
And struck her harp of fretted, bead-like spray. 

Decked in a robe of amber-tinted mist, 
With sea-shells broidering her tawny hair, 
And strings of sultry coral on her bust. 
And 'bout her arms, so tapering and white. 



24 TEMPEST, THE BLACK CAPTIVE, 

At times her chant was fitful, restless, wild, 
It charmed him by its weird, fantastic power ; 
At times its pathos moved his soul to tears, 
And made his heart her slave for evermore. 

With pale sheet muffled round her drowsy face, 
The sleeping sea awoke to list her strain, 
Till all the waves threw up their dimpled hands 
For very wonder, rippling forth their joy. 

Bold Tempest reined his mystic steed of light, 
And bared his head before the siren's bower; 
She gave him welcome with a thrilling song, 
Shook down the wealth of her bright, sun-like hair. 

He sank^ with clashing armor, at her feet, 
His grandeur conquered from that fatal hour ; 
He poured into her ear his burning prayer, 
And covered her fair hands with kisses wild. 

Ever she answered with a maddening song, 
A song of passion, full of pleading power ; 
Her fatal music-language sure beguiled, 
He could but love that 'wildering being strange. 

.Music, the language of the sirens wild, 
She taught him in her grotto by the sea ; 



TEMPEST, THE BLACK CAPTIVE. 25 

Full many a round peerless Apollo made, 
While Tempest lingered in th' enchanted bower. 

Prudence, caution, rules of the upper realm. 
Were all forgotten in that passion-spell ; 
Apollo, on his westward-going round, 
With burning heart grew fierce toward his kind. 

The brightest dream, alas ! must know an end. 
Young Tempest's waking came to him full soon ; 
He woke from love's captivity to chains. 
From tender dream of love to anguish wild. 

A delegation of fierce, angry gods 

Waited on him within the siren's bower; 

They bound the captive god with chains of might, 

And bore him unto august Saturn's throne. 

His fatal crime, love of a siren queen, 
A being of a sphere beneath his own \ 
AVoe ! woe ! alas, to that bright, fatal dream, 
Those golden moments by the sleeping sea ! 

And yet, full many a life is thus bound, 
In galling chains of woe's captivity. 
Who have not e'en the memoij of a joy 
To backward glance upon in their dark gloom. 

3 



126 ■ TEMPEST, THE BLACK CAPTIVE. 

Upon a throne of power stern Saturn sat, 
'Neath canopy of star-decked, ether bkie, . 
In his bold hand he swayed scepter of might, 
. Forged from Aurora's gleaming mines of gold. 

Grim Saturn felt no pity for the youth. 
He who so fiercely could devour his own ; 
The peerless captive, bowing 'neath his chains, 
Fed the fierce fires of his wild tyranny. 

No word of woe, of shame, or of regret. 
Escaped the culprit's silent lips of scorn ; 
But when the awful sentence thundered forth, 
In voice that woke a thousand echoes hoarse, — 
Imprisonment to both, while Earth shall last / 

Forth sprung he, in his glorious symmetry. 
His shackled limbs shook off their galling chains ', 
He frantic grew, for mercy he implored, — 
Mercy for her, — the hapless siren queen. 

Useless, alas ! his generous, frantic prayers. 
Rendered in her behalf whom he adored ; 
He uttered no petition for himself. 
But grasped the hand of his grim destiny. 

They bore him, bound and shackled, to his cell. 
In ether prison, in the welkin realm; 



TEMPEST, THE BLACK CAPTIVE. 27 

They locked the siren in a dungeon deep, 
Beneath the waters of the trackless sea. 



Oft, when the voice of memory whispers him 
Of days made deathless by the beam of love, 
Of rapturing music-language so divine. 
By scented mosses, and by snowy waves. 

He frenzied grows, in paroxysms mad, 

And, cursing, grapples at his prison-door ; 

He thrusts his lightning hands through his forged 

bars. 
And snatches downward for his captive bride. 

He pours in torrents his wild tears of rain, 
His sobs of thunder shake the earth with awe. 
His labored breath, the winds disturb and move. 
Till strong trees wring their hands with agony. 

She, in her lowly dungeon, chill and drear, 
Hears his wild call, and answers with a wail ; 
She gloves her hands in waves, and reaches forth. 
Through liquid bars, — the surface of the sea. 

He grasps her fair wave-fingers in his own. 
Lays his lightning hand on her prison-door; 



28 TEMPEST, THE BLACK CAPTIVE. 

His love -words of fierce thunder she adores, 
Plaints answering Vords through trembling lips of 
spray. 

At times he clasps about the patient moon, 

A shadowy ring, the troth-plight of their love ; 

She sees the token of their lost delight, 

And knows the tears and woe which it imports. 

He writes love-messages with shining type, 
Within the mystic circle of his ring; 
He counts with stars the days that will go by, 
Ere he will come to keep their tryst again. 

Successive nights this shadowy ring appears, 

A royal token set within the sky. 

An omen known alike on land and sea. 

This tryst-plight of these hapless lovers strange. 

At midnight oft I hear them, through long hours, 
Holding their weird communion undisturbed ; 
In fancy I can see her mournful face 
Pressed 'gainst the window of the glassy sea. 

Ages of weary bondage they have lived. 
Ages have drank the prisoned Tempest's tears; 
Through countless years his thunder-voice has called 
His captive queen, beneath the gloomy sea. 



TEMPEST, THE BLACK CAPTIVE. 29 

When Time shall cease to reign in mystic power, 
And Earth a burning scroll shall flee away, 
When the strange Pleiads gods seven days have told, 
Will captive Tempest and his bride go free. 






THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

Alone and unguarded it stands in its shadows ; 

The snows drift unheeded about its low door ; 
The shrill winds of winter sob loud through each 
crevice, 

And murmur unheard o'er the untrodden floor. 

There still through each chamber the moonlight steals 
nightly, 

And feels with white fingers across the bare floor, 
As though it were seeking the face of some sleeper 

That never would dream 'neath that roof any more. 

Oh, never ! The dreamers that nightly assembled, 

So care-free and happy, to sleep unannoyed, 
Are scattered, — some to the wild world, and the 
others 
Are laid with the hosts which pale Death has 
decoyed. 
(30) 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 31 

O silence unbroken ! no footsteps disturb thee. 

Our little, bare feet, with their young, tireless fall, 
Have crept o'er thy threshold, to wander forever 

Away from our brood-nest, — the ancestral hall. 

Oh, never again o'er thy door-stone in summer, 

Will the prints of our young feet be traced by the 
dew; 

Or burst of glad voices be heard in our gambols, — 
So happy, so light, in their innocence true. 

Dear visions departed ! forever departed ! 

And naught but the dead leaves of memory sere 
Are left in my sad heart, so withered and matted 

With drifts that have gathered for many a year. 

Alone and forsaken it stands in its shadows, 
And still not alone, for fond Nature is there ; 

The long-fingered grass o'er the low sill is woven, 
And kingcups and daisies, so glowing and fair. 

Yes, Nature will guard it, and wild winds and moon- 
beams 

Will lay their thin hands on the mossy old roof; 
And light-footed rain-drops will glide o'er its shingles, 

Awaking low sobs on the lonely old roof. 



32 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

Yes, Nature will guard it, and mournful-voiced breezes 
In sad, wailing whispers forever will call ; 

But those who once kept it will never more listen 
The songs the winds sing in the crazy old wall. 



SEARCHING FOR GOD. 

O SKY ! with thy bosom begilded with light, 
O sky ! with thy bosom bejeweled by night, 
While cradling the stars with pale, glittering sheen, 
Pray tell me if ever the Maker thou'st seen? 

And, sun, with thy zone, O so brilliantly fair ! 
High sweeping thy way through the soft, balmy air. 
Tell me, I implore, on thy wide, lofty round. 
If ever the Maker of all thou hast found ? 

And tell me, thou storm ! on reeking wings driven, 
While raging supreme from earth unto heaven. 
Oh, tell me if ever, wild, sobbing, and wet. 
The Great and the wonderful God thou hast met ? 

And, moon ! like a silver globe circled with jet. 
Supreme in thy reign, amid trembling stars set. 
Hast thou e'er encountered, while shining on high. 
The Power that for mortals did suffer and die ? 

(33) 



34 



SEARCHING FOR GOD. 

I Stood in the wildwood, the green boughs above; 
On bramble and leaflet the birds sang of love ; 
The wild flowers, in clusters of rose and of snow, 
Bejeweled the mosses that glistened below. 

When, softly and sweetly, a little voice said 
('Twas voice of a violet, drooping its head), 
*^I am meek, I am lowly, and sfnall is my part, 
But the secret you seek I hold in my heart. 

'^ Go look on the earth, on the ocean, the sky; 
Oh, look on the least of his works, such as /. 
He lives in the grass-blade, He breathes in the air. 
And, look where you may. He is there I He is there f ' 

I turned from the spot, more wise from that hour ; 
Pausing, I gazed on the sweet little flower. 
As, bowing so meekly toward the green sod. 
It held in its petals the infinite God. 



THE STAR. 

I FOUND a pearl, with glow serene, 
Soft beaming from the wondrous sea ; 

But when I sought to grasp it near, 
I found the pearl was not for me. 

I saw a rose of purest dye, 

I strove to pluck it from its tree. 

To cherish it within my heart, — 
The fragrant thing was not for me. 

I caught a song so soft and clear, 
Borne sweetly o'er the turbid sea; 

I tuned my harp, its notes to lure; 
Alas ! the song was not for me. 

I found a treasure, oh, so dear. 

More sacred than aught else could be ; 

With raptured soul I drew it near, — 
The treasure was not meant for me. 

(35) 



36 



THE STAR. 

I sat within my loveless night, 

When, beaming upward fair and free, 

A star arose with tranquil light, — 
It seemed to shine alone for me. 

And, while I gazed upon its crest, 
I recognized its beauty free ; 

Of all the treasures I had craved. 
The star, alone, .belonged to me. 

And thus the pearl, the rose, the song. 
The treasure, dear as life could be, 

Were gathered in by other hands, — 
God only meant the star for me. 

And e'er it glows upon my life. 

The one bright thing my senses see, 

I strive to say, ^'Thy will be done;" 
And trust the star that shines for me. 



THE GHOST RING. 

He said that our dream was over. 
And he took his ring away ; 

But he could not rid my finger 
Of the imprint where it lay. 

For, encircling still my finger. 
Like a littk band of snow, 

A dim ghost-ring clung about it, 
With a white and pleading glow. 

Then, I said, the dream is over. 
And I had to set him free ; 

For his heart warmed for another. 
And he didn't care for me. 

I knew the ties were severed, 
And I tried hard to forget ; 

4 (37) 



3S 



THE GHOST RING. 

But the wan thing on my finger 

Still kept pleading, ''Oh, not yet!" 

Then my tears would struggle upward. 
For the little penciled band 

Clung e'er, with a faithful fondness. 
To my poor, forgotten hand. 

And my heart, too, bore the impress 
Of the love it used to hold ; 

Though I knew him all unworthy. 
And I strove so to seem cold. 

And I hope he may be happy, 
For they say his bride is fair. 

That her eyes are blue and winning. 
With sunny, glimmering hair. 

Oh, I never prayed for beauty, 
Till I found he thought me dim; 

But I did not think he'd scorn me. 
When I was so true to him. 

But his heart hungered for beauty, 
And I, sobbing, set him free ; 

And I pray God to forgive him 
The cruel wrong done to me. 



THE GHOST RING. 39 



And in that pure land of glory, 

When we've drained life's bitter bowl, 

He will see, with eyes unclouded. 
That there's beauty of the soul. 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

Blood-drops upon her mantle. 
And blood-drops on her hair^ 

She comes, with languid graces. 
And dreamy, pensive air ; 

Her saffron tresses trailing, 

Her bronze bust blandly veiling. 
So wondrous and so rare. 

She snatches up the roses. 
The tawny, milky roses, 
Like gypsies in the hedges. 

And ties them in her hair ; 
And dusky leaves that shiver. 
And crawl and crawl and quiver. 

So hungry and so bare ; 
She heedeth not their pleading. 
But, wounded and all bleeding. 

She ties them in her hair. 



(40) 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

The songs she sings are 'palling, 

Like bugles wildly calling, 

Like muffled death-drums rolling, 

By subtle, hidden hand j 
The dead leaves they are sighing, 
With lips all stiff and dying, 

Low dirges, sad and bland ; 
But onward still she floateth, 
Her tawny hair she combeth 

With comb of rushing winds. 

She clasps the dying Autumn 

In yellow, gorgeous arms, 
She yields her languid splendors, 

Her dreamy, mellow charms ; 
But he heeds not her rapture, 
She hath no power to capture ; 

In her bland, murky breath 
There lingers no commanding 

To baffle hungry Death, 



41 



MEMORIES. 

Old memories, like fall-leaves, are rustling 

Familiarly now to my tread ; 
The fate-winds that swept through life's branches 

Came hurling them down to me dead ; 
With the wild dews of anguish upon them, 

Came hurling them down to me dead. 

Life's twilight has gathered about me, 

Old memories are busy to-night ; 
And, woven with life's broken fancies, 

Old pictures, defaced by time's blight, 
Are re-touched by shadowy fingers, — 

Old pictures, defaced by time's blight. 

Ah ! link after link has been broken. 

The chain of our circle is o'er ; 
It's lost in the rust and the rubbish 

That feeds this wild, uncertain shore, 

(42) 



MEMORIES. ' 

Deep buried, with time's rust upon it, 
That feeds this wild, uncertain shore. 

My tablets are traced by loved fingers, 
Their sacred prints never will fade j 

The fingers that traced them are pulseless, 
Low under the long grass are laid ; 

The wan moon shines fondly upon them, — 
Low under the long grass are laid. 

Loved faces are gazing upon me, 

From beds 'neath the dim, gloomy mould ; 
Their lives have run down in their bosoms. 

Their touch and their glances are cold ; 
They never can warm me with gladness, — 

Their touch and their glances are cold. 

Farewell for a little time, sleepers. 

There's a spot by thy side for me j 
Let the birds and wild bees sing o'er it, 

And the winds, from the far-off sea. 
Chant anthems softly above it, — 

They will hallow my bed for me j 
The great stars glow kindly above it, — 

They will hallow my bed for me. 



43 



WHEN I WOULD BE REMEMBERED. 

When earth's brightest beams are glowing, 

And birds loud in their song, 
The voice of the wind is merry, 

And pleasures thickly throng, — 
When all eyes beam with glad welcome, 

And smiling lips are bland. 
You may then forget my blessing, 

The grasp of my fond hand. 

When life's summer days have vanished. 

The birds have outward flown ; 
When thy genial joys are faded, 

And golden gods o'erthrown; 
When the fickle smiles you trusted 

Have failed thee in the test. 
Will those in \\iy joy forgotten 

Steal backward to thy breast ? 
(44) 



WHEN I WOULD BE REMEMBERED. 

When the night of woe and sorrow- 
Has settled o'er thy life, 

Till alone you stand, bemoaning. 
In the uncertain strife, 

Oh, then I would be remembered. 
When promised ones disown, 

And prove thee how well L love thee, 
When bolder loves have flown. 

It is good to be remembered 

In thy bright summer-time. 
When thy life is filled with gladness, 

Thy joys a merry chime ; 
But far deeper, ay, and purer, 

When worth to us is shown. 
Are the sentiments we treasure 

When sunshine loves have flown. 

The clinging tendrilsy»///^ puts out 

And clasps the proven few ; 
Of all the fond throng that promised, 

So few, alas ! are true. 
Oh, give me, then, thy memory; 

I've loved thee through life's blight. 
When the sharers of thy sunshine 

Have scorned thee in thy night. 



45 



NIGHT. 

The night, — she trails forth from her bower, 
The grand, gorgeous quadroon, the queen ; 

She has arched the young moon on her brow 
And burnished its silvery sheen ; 

She has crushed its bright rays in her hair, 

And has woven a veil of its gair, — 
A mesh that is pure and serene. 

The night, — she peeps forth from her bower, 
With bands of strung stars on her bust, 

And over her wild purple tresses 
A garland of fire-flies is thrust. 

With a glad, fond joy she is weeping, — ■ 

Her dewy tear-drops theyjare sweeping 
Down unto the mouldering dust. 

Her tear-drops make foam on the lilies. 
And slide over the bleeding rose ; 

Far down, like a thing of rare richness, 
Her glimmering hair it flows. 

(46) 



NIGHT. 

The air is rife with the musk of flowers. 
And ghostly phantoms haimt the dim hours 
When the wild wisp so weirdly glows. 

The night, — she reigns in her grand bower ; 

She's decked in her bridal array, 
She's woven a robe of the blackness, 

A scarf of the pale ''milky way." 
With ruby Mars in her gleaming veil. 
Meteors caught in her dusky trails 
She looks, she longs for the unseen priest, — 
On her star-decked throne watches the east 

For the flag of her bridegroom Day. 

Through long, weary hours she is watching, 
And her bridesmaids around her stand, 

For they know that King Day is coming, 
And the grand bridal near at hand. 

Messenger meteors fly the air. 

In quest of the bridegroom great and fair, — 
For the flash of his golden wand. 

And, oh ! was ever a sight so grand ? 
Burnt perfumes floating over the land,-— 

It is at the bright hour of dawn. 
And forth he rolls in a golden car. 
The whole earth burns like a beacon star, 



47 



48 NIGHT. 

He crowns his bride with a wreath of light, 
And drapes her form in a robe of white, 
As heaven's holy angels are. 

He folds her then to his burning breast. 

Her hands are clasped and her lips are pressed 

In a lover's own earnest way. 
The fitful wisp and the fire-flies fade, 
The stars slide back to their wonted shade^ 

And Queen Night is wedded to Day. 



THE CAWING OF A CROW. 

Oh, how well do I remember, 

In the month of wild September, 

When I wandered through the woodlands. 

Where the trees were all aglow ! 
For the tints of fall were on them, 
And I sighed and thought upon them. 
Till my reverie deep was broken 

By the cawing of a crow. 

Then I'd creep from out my haven. 

And I'd watch the moody raven. 

While she fluttered through the branches. 

As they creaked above my head. 
And I listened with strange longing. 
Hoping that she'd change her cawing 
Into notes of warbled sweetness, — 

A brief song, if nothing more. 
But she only mounted higher, 
Spread her sombre wing on air, 

5 (49) 



50 



THE CAWING OF A CROW. 

With her cawing, cawing, cawing, 
E'er repeated o'er and o'er. 

Oh, how well do I remember, 

When the fire flashed forth its splendor, 

Quite forgetful of the lesson 

All unlearned upon my knee ! 
For I saw within the embers. 
As they glowed in flashing splendors, 
Quaint-wrought visions of old cities 

That had crumbled long ago. 
And thus lost in vagrant dreaming, 
Lost in wild, forgetful seeming, 
I was startled to the real 

By the cawing of a crow. 

Then I'd gaze across the mountain. 
Over frozen brook and fountain, 
While I shuddered at the wailing 

Of the wild winds, fierce and low. 
But she moved her wing as slightly, 
While she made her way as lightly, 
As when summer suns were trailing 

O'er the hills, with fiery glow. 

Oh, how well do I remember 

When thfe fall's bright, fading splendor 



THE CAWING OF A CROW, 51 

Had well-nigh spent its rare brightness, 
That blushed at the autumn's call ! 
When I wandered forth to gather 
The ripe nuts, which wind and weather 
Had lashed from th^ sombre branches. 
The brown offerings of fall. 

When I'd filled the brimming casket, 
A quaint- woven, uncouth basket, 
And had drawn myself up proudly. 

In my readiness to go. 
Then I heard a rapid rustling 
'Mong the frosted leaves as hustling ; 
And I started, half in wonder, 

At the cawing of a crow. 

For she claimed her share of booty. 
And she deemed it well her duty 
To lay up her stores for winter. 

Ere the fierce north winds should blow. 
And with fear she fluttered o'er me. 
With her pinions black above me. 
And her cawing, cawing, cawing 

E'er repeated o'er and o'er. 

Oh, how well do I remember. 
Now that life's varied September 



52 



THE CAWING OF A CROW. 

Has tinted fair youth-time's summer 
With the sombre autumn glow ! 

How these memories steal before me, 

In the woof of life's strange story, 

Clad in living, seeming real, 
At the cawing of a crow ! 

Oh, how strange this life of mortals. 
With its hidden, mystic portals, 
Where we have so little summer 

And so much of wintry woe ! 
Our life-links are closely woven. 
Far too strong to e'er be cloven 
By just such trivial trifles 

As the cawing of a crow. 

And we love to think upon them, 
When fond memory has clothed them 
In a quaint and dreamy real 

Of a startling, natural glow. 
And we reverence each slight pleasure 
That in youth we used to treasure. 
Till we even stoop to cherish 

The crude cawing of a crow. 



THE OLD BROOD-NEST. 

In a lonely thicket dense and brown, 
An old nest clung with haggard hand, 

Mouldering away in the shade forlorn, 
Rocked about at the winds' command. 

Old nest, unfold thy history strange ! 

Tell us of birdlings young and fair ; 
Of the days of toil and vigils long, 

Ere thy brood left thy sheltering care. 

Old nest ! each twig, each fibre so brown 
Is rich with memories, fondly blest ; 

My being with sadness deep is moved 
At sight of old, deserted nest. 

Sad was the time when the silver wings 
Took their unsteady, aimless way. 

Never more to nestle breast to breast. 
So fondly guarded night and day. 

5* ( 53 ) 



54 



THE OLD BROOD-NEST. 

The time will come when the weary doves 
Will backward toil to the home-nest, 

And mourn for the days forever gone, 
When nestled fondly, breast to breast ; 

For touch of a mother's wing once more, 
And the warmth of her sheltering breast; 

For the pure notes of the mother's song, 
Gladly trilled o'er the old brood-nest. 

Young doves, thy tired, soiled wings will trail 

Oft in the lowly, cankering dust. 
When the wild storms burst and whirlwinds howl, 

Till feeble grows thy first great trust. 

For those young days gone know no return ! 

Memory has wreathed the hours loved best, 
And heart-hands cling, with a strength untold. 

To the peace known in the old home nest. 



THE WITHERED LEAF. 

I HAD a plant, a fragrant thing, 

I loved it for its modest hue. 
And watched each softly-penciled glow. 

And fed it e'er with sun and dew. 

I loved each leaf, each tint serene, 

And said, none other e'er could vie, — 

No bud could swell, no flower unfold, 
So fair and perfect to my eye. 

A leaf grew pale and wan and sere ; 

I watched it fading day by day, 
Until it fell within my hand, 

A little victim of decay. 

When, bursting from the olden wound, 

A tiny bud began to glow. 
And formed into a perfect leaf. 

And brightened in the sunlight's flow. 

(55) 



5 6 THE WITHERED LEAF. 

If I had loved the dead leaf once, 
I loved the young one just as well ; 

My grief, devotion, seemed forgot, 
Gone like the withered leaf that fell. 

And thus, I thought, and dropt a tear. 
When fate shall shake me from life's tree, 

A fairer form will fill my place. 
And none will ever think of me. 

They'll lay me in some distant dell. 
My dead face lifted to the sky ; 

And there, forgotten and ignored. 
The years of darkness will go by. 

Oh, are we then so soon forgot ? 

^nd memory, must that too decay? 
And has the heart no sacred spot. 

In which her loved and lost to lay? 



THE MESSENGER. 

A MESSENGER stood at my door, 

And knocked as none had knocked before ; 

So strange and weirdly chill and white, 

All in the wild, black, heavy night. 

He plucked my bud that hid the thorn, 

The one flower of my life forlorn. 

A messenger stood at my door, 
And called as none had called before ; 
His voice was sweet and strangely free, 
He called my one white lamb from me ; 
It went out from my heart's own fold, 
I wept, my life had grown so cold. 

A messenger stood at my door. 
And sang as none had sung before ; 
He charmed my one fond dove away. 
That cooed to my life day by day ; 

(57) 



^8 THE MESSENGER. 

In my despair I moaned, "Ah me !" 
Its plaint had grown so dear to me. 

A messenger stood at my door, 
And plead as none had plead before ; 
He won my wayward heart from earth, 
To trust in His pure, holy worth. 
I know my bud, my lamb, my dove, 
Are all awaiting me above. 



ALONE. 

A CLOUD was on my senses, and my soul was but a 

moan ; 
A sob convulsed my being — its wail was, ''I'm alone !" 
I could not cease my sadness nor comprehend my part, 
For a woe sat sobbing to my crushed and stricken 

heart. 

I caught the dirge it murmured, I wailed it o'er and 

o'er; 
Of my heart I barred the windows, I bolted every 

door, 
That nothing might possess it save my melancholy 

moan ; 
And my poor blind senses chanted, "Alone, I am 

alone!" 

From a friendly ray of sunlight a beam crept o'er my 

brow: 
Its touch was full of kindness; it said, "/';;/ with you 

now." 

(59) 



6o ALONE. 

The warble of abirdllng, as it flashed its wings of blue, 
Said, as plain as words could tell me, "I sing this song 
to yotcy 

A wild flower flashed its azure bells and breathed its 

life away, 
Its language was of perfumes, as it glowed above the 

clay j 
A moonbeam laid its lambent cheek on the pillow with 

my own. 
And told me, with its dim, white lips, ''You are not 

left alone ; 
I've traveled many a league to shine upon your brow ; 
Have done with all your moaning, for / am with you 

now." 

When afar off in the distance a great light seemed to 

break, 
It showed a fearful error and a long-indulged mistake ; 
Its glow was full of language, it spoke in cheering 

tone. 
And I saw by its effulgence that I never was alone. 

Then my spirit ceased its sobbing, I re-opened every 
door, 

And I caught a million voices I had never heard be- 
fore j 



ALONE. (5 1 

And when earthly friends forsake 'me, and all I love 

have flown, 
I shall know that He is with me, that I'm never left 

alone. 



DEATH'S SUMMONS. 

"Come o'er," they called, "our shores are shining." 

A maiden paused, in beauty rare ; 
An unseen hand seemed laid upon her, 

And voices echoed in the air. 

She paused, a phantom-grasp detained her, 
Her soul was filled with boding fear ; 

"Oh, no," she wailed, her bright cheek blanching, 
" I cannot come, for life is dear. 

"I cannot come, your calling chills me; 

The hidden sea is wild and dark, — 
Only the weary, broken-hearted 

Care to cross o'er in your pale bark." 

" Come o'er," they called, so low and tender, 
When the moon glimmered on the moor, 

When dew-bells wept 'neath lids of silver, 
And wind-hands grappled at the door. 
(62) 



DEATH'S SUMMONS. 

Her long hair fell adown her pillow. 

Pressed by a cheek like star-beam white : 

A young form lay in death's robes flowing. 
And moaned and wailed unto the night. 

" Come o'er," they called, so low and tender. 

*^ Ready," she breathed upon the air; 
She heard the sound of death's oars beating. 

And welcomed them to bear her there. 

And so, when weary stars were fading. 
The old moon fainting in the west, 

Out from this world of care and grieving,, 
A spirit sailed to port of rest. 



63 



THE OLD HULK. 

Just out of the harbor the old hulk lay, 
Fast on the sand-bar, all battered and gray ; 
Naught but the gull, and the wild, yellow spray, 
E'er paused on the spot where the old hulk lay. 

The barnacle reared its encampment bold 

Down on its timbers all covered with mould ; 

The loathsome snail crawled o'er the brine-washed keel, 

And sea-stars flashed in the shattered old wheel. 

But, grim and defiant, the dim wreck lay, 
At the jeer of waves, and winds of the bay ; 
There seemed in its port the language of pain, 
Forlorn, forgotten, but fashioned to reign. 

Oh, the old, old hulk, with its mast forlorn. 
Pointing at midnight, and pointing at morn. 
Never forgetful, but true to the last, 
JBravely supporting its gray, battered mast. 
(64) 



THE OLD HULK. 65 

There was in its aspect^ fast on the sand, 
What told e'en in ruin the j-^?// could be grand ; 
Pointing in sunshine, in storm, to the sky, . 
Its priceless motto, '' My trust is on High." 

On High ! oh, the language the old hulk told. 
Crouched on the sand-bar, all going to mould ; 
But never ignored by the wet-winged gull 
That picked at the- snail on its sodden hull ; 
Worthy the lesson, more precious than gold, 
I learned by the wisdom the old hulk told. 

Oh, life-wrecks, many and often we strand. 
In wild abandon, or fast on the sand ; 
But seldom and few, with their battered mast, 
E'er pointing so bravely, until the last. 

Oft in the moments of trial and dread 
I think of the language the old hulk said ; 
And if / should wreck on the wild reefs fast, 
Help me, kind Father, be true to the last. 



6^ 



\ 



THE PRIVATE'S DEATH-BED. 

Dead, dead and cold, on the matted mould, 

The pulseless body lay ! 
The dews fell still on the stony eyes, 
That, gazing upward upon the skies, 

In mute and vacant way, 
Were wet with tears of shining dew, 

Bright in morning's ray. 

The soft winds went sobbing slowly by, 

And all the trembling leaves 
Came sighing down from each low bough, 
And laid their wet hands upon his brow. 
The sorrowing, tear-wet leaves. 
And the pure-eyed stars, all the lone night. 
Had softly gazed on that face so white, — 
So white in the smile of the pale moon. 
As she swept through the sky in belt so bright, - 

In the still, dusky gloom ; 
While now and then some picket's shot 
Came hissing o'er that silent spot, 
(66) 



THE PRIVATE'S DEATH-BED. 67 

But thrilled not the heart of the young dead, 
Sleeping alone on his lowly bed, 

In that wild, dismal spot. 



Over the hills, in a low-roofed home. 

Lies a pillow smooth and white. 

The moonlight falls on the oaken floor ; 

The night-winds sigh 'neath the sagging door. 

Long months shall pass, but the absent one 

Will dream not here when his toils are done. 

The cricket's wail 'mong the poplar boughs 

No more will the slumbering youth arouse, 
When morn has conquered night. 

No more o'er the lawn will his bare feet 

Dash the dew from clover bright, 
Waking the wail of the brown-winged bee. 

Asleep in the clover bright ; 
As, driving his cows down the green lane, 
He gayly shouts to his herd in a strain 

So merry and so free, 
Waking the bluebird's carol so low. 

In the old apple-tree. 

The winds are chill upon the brown hills ; 
" The frost gleams over the lea ; 



68 THE PRIVATE'S DEATH-BED. 

The bees are gone from the blossoms sweet, 

To hive in a woodland tree ; 
The wail of the blue jay flying low 

Sounds wearily unto me. 
For alone he sleeps in distant land ; 

His poor limbs stiff and cold 
Will feel no touch of tender hand, 

So still upon the mould ; 
But his spirit's gone to that great God 

Who ruleth far and wide. 
K private' s sotdis as dear to Him 

As a monarcK s in lofty pride. 



BUTTERFLIES. 

A GLIMMER of wings flashing over the clover, 
Glowing and flickering on the fair dawn ; 

A glimmer of golden wings over the daisies, 
Over the daisies that bloom on the lawn. 

Out from the green hedge, where the busy gray spider 
Has spun o'er the roses with tidies so bright, 

Has spun o'er the roses, so sweet and refreshing, 

And pinned them with dew-drops caught through the 
night. 

As deep through the meadows the brown cows are 
wading. 

Knee-deep in clover and cowslip and dew. 
They frighten the butterflies, slowly coquetting, 

Up from the wealth of the long grass so blue. 

Oh, how many loves has a gay butterfly, pray? 
Conquesting ever both morning and night, 

(69) 



7o 



BUTTERFLIES. 



Burning with wild ardors through the whole summer 
day, 
Wooing all things that are brilliant and bright. 

Deep in the pale hearts of the amber-haired lilies, 
Probing their souls till their sweetness is flown, 

Kissing the tears from the blue-eyed forget-me-nots, 
Draining their cups till their essence is gone. 

The round-cheeked clover has frizzed her red tresses, 
Holds up her pretty lips jaunty and gay j 

Her conquest is siLre, but its surety is fleeting. 
The easiest zvon is soonest to stray. 

O silly young beauties, O daisies and clover, 

Roses and lilies so faultless of stain. 
Why will you unfold your pure souls to a wanton, 

And yield your nectar to creature so vain ? 

The fickle young butterflies burn on the meadows, 
While mortal butterflies earth's scenes invade; 

The heart of the girl is as slow as the clover ; 
The fate of the flower is fate of the maid. 



OH FOR A COT IN A SWEET, WILD 

DELL. 

Oh for a cot in a sweet, wild dell \ — 

Where the " musk-flower" bursts her topaz bell. 

Where the wan, white lilies glow and sway 

Like tapers dimmed by the light of day. 

And the ^^globe-flower" burns its garnet lamp 

O'er the mosses so lowly and damp 

Where the chaste rose bows like a nun at prayer. 

The bright, frail dews, in her bowing tliere. 

Slide like the beads of a rosary 

Through her leaf fingers so fair to see. 

Where the emerald hoods of infant flowers 

Swing and nod through the green, sunny bowers, 

And the polished swords of meadow-brakes 

Glimmer and flash o'er the sleeping lakes J 

Oh for the voice of the winds and leaves ! 
Oh for the sheen of the mist's pale sheaves! — 

(71) 



72 



OH FOR A COT. 

The cascade clinging with marble arms — 
Wooing with witchery void of charms — 
To the cold, wild boulder in her arms, 
And coy bells leaning from out the moss, 
Like baby faces through curls of floss. 
Where the spider's silky strands are spun, 
Like fairy telegraphs in the sun, — 
Dispatches of death e'er thrill its wires 
Up in the wild ^Mieart's-ease's" scarlet spires. 

Oh for the fond love-notes of the bee. 
Up from the golden, mint-covered lea ! — 
Sipping ambrosia so red and rare 
From the burning cups of lilies fair. 
Where the red lip of the rose is prest 
By sunbeam lips that are ne'er at rest ! 
Oh, the Mormon sun, in grand attire, 
Reigns and conquers with a fierce desire ! 

Quaint Fall, like a gypsy, in tunic red. 
Comes with her wild torch, by beauty fed ; 
And the flowers faint and fall with woe. 
All haggard and old the roses grow ; 
They shake off their cloaks of glowing red 
To pave the way the victor shall tread. 



HEART-HUNGER. 

Oh, why, alas ! this hunger, 
This yearning, wild and keen. 

For something more ennobling 
Than we have felt or seen ? 

Though mutual loves enthralling 

Our senses glorify. 
Yet when Ave clasp our treasures 

They do not satisfy. 

Day by day we shadows chase, 

Hoping at last to find 
Something to calm this unrest. 

To pacify the mind. 

Day by day we pass them by. 

With disappointed lot, 
To hunger, still hunger on 

For something that is not. 

7 {n) 



74 HEART-HUNGER. 

To hoard our frail earthly joys, 
Trusting God has given 

A pure balm to satisfy, — 
Waiting all in heaven. 



THE ROSES. 

The beautiful, fair roses 

That deck the paths of love, — 
Oh, how they woo with perfumes, 

And drop each tinted glove ! 

They lift their blushing petals, 
All warm with passion's art, — 

But, you rare enchantresses. 
There's a thorn in your heart. 

Along your paths so winning 
I trace the prints of blood ; 

I know the foot you tempted 
Was wounded as it trod. 

No, no, you amorous roses. 

Be yours a wily part ; 
I shun your fatal beauties, — 

There's venom in your heart. 



(75) 



76 



THE ROSES. 

Your ways, O wily roses, 

Lead down and down to woe ; 

I shrink with nameless terror 
From paths that lead so low. 



THICKET FLOWERS. 

Woven low over the meadow brook, 

In the bright long ago, 
Where tinkling waters were clear and bright, 

And the stones green and low, 

The lily-buds burst their emerald shells 

And shook their yellow hair ; 
The waters dripped o'er the woodland bells 

And o'er the mosses fair ; 

The dew-vines laced with their golden threads 

The restless thicket low ; 
The wild thrush peeped through its leafy screen 

At morning's early glow ; 

The ^^eyebright" shot up rockets of fire, 

The flag-bells, swung and swayed, 
The "meadow-star" flashed her pearly beam, 

The moss its green mat laid. 

7* ( 77 ) 



78 THICKET FLOWERS. 

Oh, well I loved, with glad, childish hands. 

To weave each glowing hue, — 
The lilies so red, the bells so tall, 

The flag-flowers wide and blue. 

I wove them fondly with dew-vines bright, 

In the low meadow dank. 
Where brook-lips kissed the yellow ferns 

That grew along its bank. 

The brook sings on, and wild flowers bloom, 
The glen vines lace their bands ; 

But the little feet that sought them out^ 
The eager, childish hands. 

Have found stern work for them to do 

In this hard world of ours. 
And they shake no more the sweet, fresh dew 

From the wild thicket flowers. 



BORN. 

The night stars fluttered their glistening wings 
When an angel boatman came ashore, 

And the tide was drifting slowly in 
As the mystic boatman plied the oar. 

The gurgling eddies rose and fell, 
And murmured away in distant note. 

And the tide was drifting softly in, — 
A wee life slept in the anchored boat. 

While stars rolled onward their glittering trains, 
And wind wheels trundled upon the moor. 

The boatman leaped on the moonlit sand 
And laid his burden upon the shore ; 

While quaint waves crouched on the pearly bars. 
And waved and beckoned with snowy hands, 

And combed their tresses with breezes soft, 

And watched the strange crafts upon the sands. 

(79) 



So ^O^^' 



When warm winds piped in the trumpet-flowers, 
And sunbeams painted the morning wild, 

A mother clasped in her tender arms 
The sacred form of a new-born child. 



JEALOUSY. 

Oh, what is the food of jealousy,^ — 
On what does it thrive the best? 

Does it live in hearts unpolluted, — 
Did it thrive in Jesus' breast? 

No ! it feeds on a deadly ruin, 

Most pitiful to impart, — 
It thrives where the corpse of Innocence 

Lies ghastly within the heart. 

The loss of Trust in our own weak breast, 

Is the fatal symptom shown ; 
We find no truth in another' s soul. 

When oiLT own self-trust has flown. 

Distrust is the deadly bloom of guilt, 

Nurtured in a narrow brain ; 
For pure truth bears no such fruit as this, 

Nor feels this unworthy pain. 

(8i) 



32 JEALOUSY. 

The bloom of love is a holy flower, 
And heaven its native dust ; 

The bosom in which it blends and blooms 
Is free from vile distrust. 



THE DIVER. 

A vessel, wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland some years ago, numbered 
among her ill-fated passengers the beautiful, plighted bride of a young lawyer, 
to whom she was about to be united in matrimony. Broken-hearted at his 
fearful loss, he abandoned his profession and became a diver. Years after the 
fatal event, he visited an ancient wreck, among whose silent passengers he at 
once recognized his lost bride, beautiful and unmarred by decay, as in life. She 
was resting serenely within her berth, and upon her white hand glowed the 
troth-ring of their lost happiness. Awed and petrified at soul, he stole away, 
leaving her to slumber on, unpolluted by mortal touch. 

The diver went down in a sea-armed bell, 
Where the emerald twilights yearly fell, 
And the moody moan of the tossing shell 
Sounded its fitful dirge. 

For he sought his bride in the coral bower 
Where the sea-weeds blossomed their dusky flower. 
And the sunlight fell in a muffled shower 

Through window of the sea. 

A dim wreck lay moored on a reef like snow. 
All manned and passengered, mouldering slow, 
And oh, never a paler band, I trow. 

Were moored in the wild ked. 

(83) 



84 THE DIVkR. 

Over the deck, with hushed and silent tramp, 
Where the sea-fires flicker like spirit lamp^ 
And down to the cabin, all dim and damp. 
The diver sought his bride. 

He found her asleep in her berth below. 
Where she lay like a statue carved from snow, — 
So frail, so fair, in the emerald glow, 

Unmarred by touch of years. 

Her long, bright, glimmering, moon-tinted hair 
Lay drifting like sea-moss, so wild and fair, 
Away from her temples, snowy and bare. 

And veiled her pulseless breast. 

One motionless hand lay over the berth. 
Where he caught a gleam, in the emerald dearth, 
Of the troth-ring placed, in its holy worth, 
On that fair, girlish hand. 

He touched not a tress of her trailing hair. 
Nor hand nor temples so snowy and fair. 
But he left her still dreaming softly there, 
His lifeless, plighted wife. 



THE RUSTLE OF THE TREES. 

When Winter's mottled mantle 

Of white and of sombre brown 
Has slid from oif the hill-tops, 

That have donned a golden crown, 
I know it in my senses, 

And I tell it by the breeze. 
The voice of Nature whispers 

In the rustle of the trees. 

When Spring, with emerald slippers, 

Has reached fair Summer's bower, — 
Has culled her share of sweetness 

From every blooming flower, — 
I know when she's retreating 

O'er the golden, sunny leas, — 
There's something so confiding 

In the whisper of the trees. 

8 (85j 



S6 THE RUSTLE OF THE TREES. 

When Fall has gained the prestige, 

In a cloak of crimson hue, 
And flocks of youthful birdlings 

That are all too young to woo, — 
When earth is filled with murmur, 

And the humming of the bees, 
I know that Autumn chanteth 

In the music of the trees. 

When Winter, cold and loveless. 

In his halls of crystal bold. 
Is fencing off his vineyards 

In such wild, fantastic mould, — 
When Nature lies suspended 

On the frigid northern breeze, 
I tell it by the rustle 

Of the icy, barren trees. 

When age is creeping o'er us, 

The bright tress has lost its hue. 
The eye has lost its sparkle, 

And the step its lightness too, 
It comes in fitful whispers 

Through the symptoms of disease, 
I know that age is on us 

By the rustle of the trees. 



THE RUSTLE OF THE TREES. 

And thus I sit a-dreaming 

Of the days fore'er gone by, — 
Of flowers that used to blossom 

Out beneath the summer sky, 
So much to be remembered 

From bright seasons such as these, 
Which whisper on forever, 

Like the rustle of the trees. 



87 



THE WOODLAND FLOWER. 

Half ankle-deep the mould lay black, 
Where the woodland trees drooped low, 

W^hen a fair young flower broke the crust, 
And waved its pure crest of snow. 

The dews fell in its heart at night. 
As it bloomed upon the world. 

Out alone 'neath the summer stars 
Its petals of snow unfurled. 

No human eye beheld it there ; 

For it faded all unseen. 
And only its small withered stem 

Remained where the flower had been. 

But the wild flower passed not away 
Till its mission was complete, 

For it left the world, when it died. 
Its heart's wealth, humble and sweet. 

(88) 



THE WOODLAND FLOWER. 

And worthy lives, be their realms small. 
An impress will leave behind ; 

The world will gain an influence pure, 
Sacred to all of mankind. 



89 



8* 



REVERIE. 

I HEAR the yellow thrushes in the corn, 

The blackbirds singing on the tangled moor ; 

I see the white grain waving on the hills, 

The boulders clinging to the wave-gnawed shore ; 

The meek herd lowing in the meadows green, 

The young lambs bleating to their staid dams near ; 

The drowsy language of the crooning brook, 
The wild bees humming in the sunlight clear. 

I see the feverish Autumn's crimson face. 

Through the bright ripples of her amber hair ; 

While languid dying flowers perfume the gale, 
Like angel censers swung upon the air. 

I hear the labored panting of the sea, 
Hot-breathed and Oriental in its swell ; 

I see the clotted foam on its wild lips, 
The upward lifting of the restless shell. 

i 90 ) 



RE VERIE. 



91 



I catch its passion-whispers and its kiss 

Pressed on the tawny forehead of the shore ; 

I see the moonlight clasping with white arms 

The long, strong swells with pearly spray shot o'er. 

I see the^old boat rocking at its pier, 
With barnacle and sea-moss on its prow ; 

Hushed is the music of its mouldy oar, 
For only ghostly ''by-gones" man it now. 

I hear the yellow thrushes in the corn, 

The blackbirds singing where the fogs are blown ; 
But, oh, I never more may tread again 

Those olden pathways thick with memories sown ! 



SUMMER. 

The passion-heated face of Summer lies 
Half hidden in the meshes of her veil ; 

And all the air is tremulous with her sighs, 
Echoed by fitful voices through the vale. 

Red, arid roses cling along her brow. 

With soft, burnt-musk scent from the leas ; 

Her tawny hair blown 'cross her dreamy eyes, 
Bronze as the glimmering backs of bees. 

Adown the chiseled contour of her form. 
Soft, maize-hued draperies floating fall. 

As listlessly she starts from out her dream, 
Impatient for the mellow Autumn's call. 

I hear her singing on her subtle harp, 

Strung with the amber threads of corn-silk pale ; 
I catch her bugle-calls from hill-tops wild. 

Borne onward by the restless-footed gale. 
(92) 



SUMMER. 

In saffron mantle fringed with trumpet-bells, 
And overshot with poppies' sultry heads, 

Her ripe lips hourly meet the sun's fierce kiss, 
As o'er his golden trail he daily treads. 

Her couch is wove of emerald verdure soft. 
And draped with curtains of dim murky haze ; 

Her pillow wove from silky roses bright, 
While subtle perfume o'er its surface plays. 

I see the white hands of an August moon 
Clasped in a benediction and a prayer 

Above the golden-headed passion-child. 
So grand in all her wondrous beauty fair. 



93 



A DIRGE TO THE OLD YEAR. 

Dead leaves for the old year's coffin, 
Gray leaves crushed into the snow, 

Faded and hueless the offering 
To the old year lying low. 

Brown leaves with a frost-drip on them, 
And touched with a fever-glow ; 

All cold and gloomy the offering 
To the old year lying low. 

Shake o'er the mesh of thy coverlet, 

O foam-woven, fleecy snow, 
And cover the mournful features 

Of the old year lying low. 

And, ye bold winds, wild winds blowing, 

Be tender and, oh, be slow ! 
Lift not rudely a single hair 

Of the old year lying low. 

(94) 



A DIRGE TO THE OLD YEAR. 95 



And, bright sunlight, warm, fair sunlight, 
Pray ye, veil thy glad, -free glow. 

And softly drop thy golden beam 
On the old year lying low. 

There's naught in my heart but sorrow, 
Mingled with sore grief and woe : 

I must part from a faithful friend 
In the old year lying low. 



YOUNG MOTH.. 

Back on thy silken wing, young moth, 
Of the wine-red flame beware ; 

Back on thy silken wing, young moth, 
For no truth awaits thee there. 

The iiiby flame that lures thee on 

A wild^ fatal arrow holds^ 
And 'neath its playful gleam, frail moth, 

Thy ruin surely enfolds. 

Back on thy dusky wing, young moth, 

Back to thy shadowy ring ; 
Better thy life should know no light 

Than scorched on thy first, fond wing. 

Woe to thee, fair thing of the night, 

To love is to fall and die ; 
The glittering warmth that lures thee on 

Will feed on thy dying sigh. 

(96) 



YOUNG MOTH. q- 



Then back to native gloom, young moth ; 

Of the wine-red flame beware ; 
Better thy life should know no warmth, 

Than, knowing, to reap despair. 



VOICES FROM HOME. 

When a wanderer, roaming unloved and unknown, 

When the dreams of my youth have vanished and flown, 

When cold words aggrieve me and trials beset, 

There's comfort in memories I never forget. 

I steal from the throng of the world's giddy mart, — 

I cherish so dearly the gems in my heart ; 

I talk with these memories that ne'er from me roam. 

And list their fond whispers, — dear voices from home. 

When far from the scenes of my infantile years. 
Where many my joys and so few were my tears. 
When men wear false faces and nothing seems true, 
Oh, sacred home voices, there's comfort in you. 
And oft, in the hush of the twilight's lone hour. 
They come like the scent of a long-withered flower j 
They speak to me softly, with love in their tone ; 
They touch up life-pictures long faded and gone. 

Through years wild with brambles I've wandered alone ; 
My spring-time is faded, its freshness is gone, 

(98) 



VOICES FROM HOME. 



99 



And many the graves I have made by the way, 
Where dead hopes lie mangled and young loves decay. 
But the loved of my childhood — feature and tone — 
Will live in my bosom till earth-life is flown. 
And when I have finished, no longer to roam. 
He' 11 send me death! s summons through zwices frofn 
home. 



THE DEAD BEE. 

The bed was a white daisy 
Where the little toiler died, 

Its sack half filled with honey, 
And its thin wing open wide. 

Its tiny pulse ceased beating 
E'en while toiling for its kind ; 

It left a useful lesson 

Unto many of mankind. 

The daisy drooped and faded. 
But it had not bloomed in vain, 

A weary little worker 

Had within its bosom lain. 

Its feeble mite of honey 

Had been given glad and free 

Unto the weary struggler. 
The frail, dying little bee. 
( loo ) 



THE DEAD BEE. tqi 

Oft when, with doubtful vision, 

I behold no part for me, 
I think upon the daisy 

And the little withered bee. 



9* 



WINTER. 

When the leaves are red, the bees are dead, 
And the sun grown chill upon the air, 

Winter comes forth from the crystal norths 
Combing the fall of his cold, white hair. 

And when one by one the bees are flown. 
And the jay screams in the wailing pine, 

And the trees grow black from loss and lack, 
While over the hills the north winds whine. 

« 
When the snow gleams white on winter night. 

The ring of the charger's hoof is loud, 

And the pale moon spans, with icy hands. 

The glittering fold of the wintry shroud. 



(I02) 



ASHBY HALL. 

The fire burns brightly at Ashby Hall, 
The windows flash with a ruby glow ; 

A new face smiles on its moody wall, 
With a flow of hair — an azure bow, 
While the old wife slumbers 'neath the snow. 

And Ashby' s fickle master is gay, 
For he finds sweet solace in the flow 

Of a gleaming tress — an eye's bright ray ; 
But yonder, out in the moon's pale glow. 
The. old wife slumbers so deep and low. 

And when the wan stars, with gentle beam. 
Are glimmering o'er the nuptial bed. 

They never neglect to cast a gleam 

On the mournful gloom of that lone bed 
Where the old wife slumbers with the dead. 

(103) 



I04 



ASHB V HALL. 

Oh, gather thy bride in fond embrace ; 
What if thy wooings have twice been said, 

That the bosom, once her resting-place, 
Now pillows a fairer, younger head, 
While the old wife slumbers with the dead ? 



THE LITTLE BLASTED BUD. 

There it grew and there it hung, 

A little, blasted bud. 
Its frail leaves closely matted 

O'er heart as bright as blood. 
It waved its mournful fringes, 

And struggled as with pain ; 
But the young bud was blasted. 

And in its core a stain. 

Pity on the fated bud, 

With ruin in its heart-; 
It has no word of pleading. 

No power to take its part. 
It only droops and shivers ; 

With shame it cannot hide. 
Pity on the ruined bud. 

Oh, spare its broken pride. 

( 105 ) 



THE FLIT OF THE BATS. 

When night steals on, and the " milky way" calm 
Lies clasping the sky with a snow-white arm ; 
When the wan-faced moon in her cool repose 
Fills all the dim earth with her lambent glows ; 
When the frog wails forth its vespers so crude, 
And the wood-bird shelters her infant brood ; 
Then up from the meadows and dusky flats, 
So gloomy and fitful, flutter the bats. 

When the farmer's daily toils are o'er, 
And he musing sits in his moonlit door ; 
While toiling all day on the heated flats, 
He longed for the hour of the shadowy bats. 
When the feverish, restless day should close, 
And the cool dews fall on the clover blows. 

And my thoughts steal back to my early days. 
When I loved the Summer and all her ways ; 
When, dreaming alone by the homestead wall, 
I listened and longed for the night-bird's call ; 
(io6) 



THE FLIT OF THE BATS. 

The katydids' nightly, endless affray, 
Only exhausted at breaking of day ; 
So brief in their language, — pointed and flat, 
They ever began at flit of the bat. 

There's joy in my heart when the misty hours 
Spill their sweet nectar in all the faint flowers. 
For I muse on a step I'll surely hear. 
And a voice that has grown so dear, — so dear. 
I place hbn a chair by the wide hearth-stone, 
And I say in ray heart. He'll come, my own, 
For I know he's near, when the purpling flats 
Send forth their brooding, and fitful-winged bats. 

And who has not hailed such messengers small. 
As part of the joys that make up their all ? 
These memories calm will evermore be 
A well-spring of joy and comfort to me. 
Long years have flown, and I linger no more 
On the wide flag-stones by the homestead door ; 
But fondly my yearning thoughts backward roam 
To the peaceful joys of my humble home. 
When through the gloom of the purpling flats 
I watched for the flit of the twilight bats. 



107 



SEA-MEWS. 

Oh, the cry of the mews, the wild, wet mews, 
Where the sea throws off her foamy, white glove, 

And the restless sands crawl ; 
Where the swart, black rocks, with their crumpled moss, 
Tangled and twined, like the strange threads of love. 

Low on the waters fall. 

When the fire-flies wave their flickering lamps. 
And the fen gnomes light their weird phantom fires. 

Then fearless boatman Ben, 
He loved that glen, with all its wizard shows. 
And, among the bronze-brakes tall, and the briers, 

Built a cot in the fen. 

And when the bellowing storm clamored loud. 
And red-handed lightnings beckoned and waved, 

Then his beacon glowed bright. 
And the old wife, nodding over her yarn, 
She watched and prayed for her fearless old brave, 

Lending his friendly light. 
(io8) 



SEA-MEWS. 109 

And 'twas thus they lived by the fitful sea; 
The katydid sang them nightly to sleep, 

And the quaint whippoorwills, 
They talked to the old pair, through the long night, 
Where the wet bells gathered their purple sleeves, 

The rose her silken frills. 

One night, old Ben went out with his boat, 
When the storm howled louder than e'er before; 

'Twas a black, fearful track . • 

To that dire distress on the waters wild ; 
But he trusted both to his arm and oar. 

And he never came back. 

He caught, with the groans of the waves, wild prayers, 
And his heart was large, but his boat was small, 

Oh, the brave boatman Ben ! 
But the frantic storm, it was mad and crazed, 
It struck out for the lives of one and all, — - 

He perished bravely then. 

Still forms came in the pale arms of the waves, 
And pressed their cold faces upon the sand. 

Where the black-winged mews screamed. 
And the ghastly wreck from the sound was gone, ^ 
All strewn piecemeal on the rock-ribbed land, 

When the bright morning beamed. 
10 



no SEA-MEWS, 

And there were dead faces, appalling, wild, 
Set in weird masses of chill dripping hair. 

Low on the still, white sand, 
Where mighty life-love left its icy seal, 
And its vaguely-formed, frantic death-prayers. 

Oh, so terribly grand ! 

The pure strand lay, fair as the lily's leaves, 
Where one still face, all in its grizzly hair. 

Lay so calmly at rest. 
The hapless wife, sorrowing, found him there, 
Just as the wild waves had borne him ashore. 

With cold and pulseless breast. 

Peace unto the ashes of boatman Ben, 
He's gone with his light to the other shore ; 

His beacon ever bright 
Shall guide earth-blind souls o'er life's turbid sea, 
Where the death-tide wails its wild *' nevermore," 

In the strange, gloomy night. 

And when the black sea-mews, they shrieked and caw'd, 
And the scared waves fluttered upon the bars. 

The old wife she would then 
Hang the olden light in the turret-wall, 
The storm-driven mariner's eye to guide. 

For the dead boatman Ben. 



SEA-MEWS. Ill 

One night, when the winds they were loud and bold, 
And the fogs crawled up from the inky sea, 

She hung out the rude light ; 
But her step was slow, and her old face as white 
As the face of the pulseless dead should be. 

That fitful, weary night. 

One path of silver gleamed over the sea, 
From the rays of the lantern outward swung, 

And her patient, worn life 
Went out with those rays so radiant and bright. 
Her soul seemed to travel that path of light. 
And brave boatman Ben, his earth- watches' o'er, 

Welcomes to heaven his wife. 



ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL LYON. 

Brave warrior, rest ; thy cares are spent, 

Thy toil and hardships o'er; 
Thou'st given thy strength, thy means, thy life, 

And 'thou canst do no more. 
. Thy fame shone out through our dreary sky 

With beam too bright to last ; 
But thy proud day is over now. 

For thou from earth hast past. 

A courage reigned in that great heart 

That never cowered at fear ; 
A craven thought his soul ne'er knew. 

And country's cause was dear. 
In his bold eye there flashed a fire 

No traitor well could brook. 
For you read all — power, will, and strength — 

In his bold, valiant look. 

(112) 



ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL LYON. 113 

He fought as brave men only fight ; 

And life was not so dear 
But he gave it as the nation's right, 
While cannon boomed with lurid light, 
Blent with the gloom of blades once bright, 
Appalling the expiring sight 

Of many a dying sire. 

The light of his proud life went out 

With that lost day so drear. 
Each warrior 'bove.that noble dead 

From dim eyes wiped a tear, 
As low they bo.wed their manly heads 

And vowed their lives to give 
As freely as their chief had done, — 

Rebellio?i must not live. 



They thought them of his noble pride, 

Love of his fatherland. 
His manly voice, too well they knew, 

Had breathed its last command ; 
'Twould ring no more 'bove war-horses' tramp. 

The bugle's piercing wail. 
That cheered them on in soul and strength 

'Mid leaden, rattling hail. 
10* 



114 



ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL LYON 

And many a gray-haired sire shall tell, 

When gathered round his hearth, 
When winter night-winds roar and shriek 

Above the naked earth. 
How the fierce rebel strove to break 

The Union's mighty chain, 
And how the dauntless Lyon fell. 

And how their strife was vain. 

O northern winds, thy notes waft low. 

And wail through the sighing thyme, 
And, sturdy oaks, with acorns strow 
The land that reared a star to glow 

Through deathless age of time. 
The sod shall moulder o'er his breast, 

The rocks grow gray and old. 
But the hand of Time shall ne'er forget 
To point the age when Lyon met 

The rebel stroke grown bold. 



THE SPIDER'S WEB. 

Back and forth she swayed and swung 

From rafters brown and bare, 
Like silken shuttle, to and fro, 

In the gray and dusky air. 

Weaving, weaving, the whole day through. 

Up in that shadowy place ; 
Misty and dim the fabric grew, — 

A delicate bit of lace. 

Like fairy's kerchief, woven fine, 

Up in the rafters so gray ; 
There it glistened and there it grew 

All through the bright summer day. 

Fatal, alas ! to the bumbling fly, 
Fast caught in the misty snare ; 

Fatal, alas ! to all but her. 
Keenly alert in her lair. 

("5) 



ij6 the SPIDER'S WEB. ■ 

Thus, I thought; in the shadowy mill, 

Watching her quaint industry. 
All are weavers of God's mankind. 

Weavers of our destiny. 

Weaving and weaving our whole lives through, 

And never an hour to lose. 
Some weave fabrics as black as night, 

Some of rare heavenly hues. 

Weavers of fate, weaving our thoughts. 
Each action, sentiment, word/ — 

Ever our mystic shuttles go, 
So subtle, swift, and unheard. 

When our fabric is woven out, 

Life's fabric, tangled and dim. 
Death unfastens the fitful web 

And carrie^it up to Him. 

Happy weaver ! whose web be bright. 

E'er woven with watchful zest. 
Never more in this world of care, — 

Peacefully, sweetly at rest. 



NATURE'S SERIES. 

God led me to his gallery, 

Where hung his picture, Spring ; 

The tints were of pale emerald, 
Twas a bright, glowing thing. 

With sound of young lambs bleating, 
And birds on coming wing. 

God led me to his gallery, 

His next a Summer scene ; 
The bees were on the clover. 

The forest deep and green, 
A snare of bright sunlight 

Hung o'er it like a dream. 

God led me to his gallery, 

His next in series, Fall ; 
A hectic flush was penciled 

In brightness over all, 
A purple, dreamy vapor 

Curtained the mountains tall. 

( 117 ) 



ii8 NATURE'S SERIES. 

I stood within his gallery, 
It was a time of night, 

And Winter closed the series — 
A Statue, cold and white, 

While starry lamps were beaming 
With reverential light. 

Spring, Summer, and rare Autumn 
Were wonderful to see ; 

But the white statue Winter 
Was glorious to me, 

All radiant from the fingers 
That carved Eternity. 



THE BOW OF PROMISE. 

I HEARD a rushing within the air, 
And raised my eyes the cause to see, 

When a band of storm-sprites, lightning-crowred, 
Broke wildly up from the angry sea. 

They muffled storm-hoods about their brows, 
Shook their tresses in frenzied glee ; 

They called to each other hoarse and loud. 
Chasing each other from the sea. 

Some bore wet burdens of filtered waves ; 

Some bore thunder-bolts, black and grim ; 
They shouted their orders bold and free. 

Touched off their pieces, fierce and dim. 

The sunbeams bound up their yellow hair. 

Hid their faces away from me ; 
The wild-flowers, blooming so sweet and bright. 

Struggling sighed on the cold, black lea. 

("9) 



120 THE BOW OF PROMISE. 

The wet birds huddled under the leaves, 
Never a note nor a wail made they ; 

The sun was quenched in the shadows bold, 
And lost seemed the fair-featured day, — 

When an arrow, hewn from rare sunlight^ 
Shot from darkness across my way ; - 

O'er the dead Tempest a bow divine 
Crowned the purified brow of Day. 

The bow of promise ; oh, how supreme 
That pure, radiant emblem free ! 

I blessed the storm, with its terrors grim, 
That gave the peerless bow to me. 



THE STARS. 

Are the stars less bright, or the moon less fair, 

Or her ring, with prisoned star^ 
Pale circling the moon in the dusky air, 
Less brilliantly bright, in this night of care. 

Than in years gone by afar ? 

I'm musing to-night on the old, old years^ 
Strung on the thread of the past ; 

And I catch the wail of my olden fears ; 

I know they are fed by my weary tears. 
So bitter with woe, alas ! 

And I sit and gaze on the black sand-bars. 
Where old waves have trod for years; 
They come and they go like the nightly stars. 
And break like sad hearts that are broke by pain, 
And are gone again from the rugged plain, 
From the moody, crouching bars. 

II ( 121 ) 



122 THE STARS. 

Oh, the stars, the stars ! are their beams less bright ? 

Or has my vision grown old . 
From views I have seen by a false, false light, 
That have clouded my trust to chilly night. 

And have made my youth so old ? 

Once, when the wild storms were bitter and loud, ' 
They could not pass my heart's door; 

And I saw a light in the blackest cloud, 

A music divine in the thunders proud, 
I smiled at the tempest's roar. 

Hush ! I catch a voice in the night-winds' wail. 

Borne to me on wing of air ; 
It drops in my soul like the manna-rain 
That fell unto Israel's hungry train. 
Till my darkened hope I once more regain, 
A new joy reigns on the throne of my pain. 

And life has again grown fair. 



FLOWER-WRITTEN DREAMS. 

Oh, dear ones, lost ones, sleeping 
Low under the mellow moss, 
Say, can we guess thy dreaming, 
By flowers above thee gleaming ? 
Thy thoughts, in thy still hours. 
Do they spring forth m. flowers, 
Pure in their guileless seeming? 

And can I read thy visions. 
By the flower-words on thy grave ?• 
Hast thou stamped in their faces — 
Their little, truthful faces — 
Thy quaint poems, to be read 
By those who mourn thee as dead. 
When cold decay defaces ? 

(123) 



LET HIM SLEEP WHERE HE FELL. 

Let him sleep where he fell, 
Where the light went out from his clear blue eye, 
Where his young blood poured in a crimson dye. 
While the pale moon gazed from the misty sky, — 

Let him sleep where he fell. 

Alas, it was so sad. 
As we found him there, in the wan, wan light. 
His dead* hand still grasping his musket tight, 
The brave, fallen boy, so pulseless and white ; 

Alas, it was so sad. 

''It is tattoo," he said, 
"Do you hear it, boys, beating on the night? 
They are encamped off the field at the right. 
What are left of our men from the mad fight, — 
It is tattoo," he said. 
(124) 



125 



LET HIM SLEEP WHERE HE FELL. 

" That last shot was sure. 
'Twas hard on us, boys, to leave us to lie 
Here on this bloody field, — leave us to die. 
We fought bravely, boys, for our cause was high, 

That last shot was sure. 



" Taps are beating ' lights out ;' 
How cold it is getting — icy, and dark ! 
Voices are calling me softly, — hark ! hark ! 
Away, from the distance, dazzling with light, 
Bright forms are beckoning, draped in pure white; 

Taps are beating * lights out. ' ' ' 



ir 



THE MANIAC LOVER'S CONFESSION. 

The fall night was fair, the sky lay clear, 
A ring-dove sobbed in the thicket near, 
The harvest-moon, like a thing in pain. 
Hung red and swollen over the plain. 
And Mars his glimmering arrow-dart 
Shot thirstily down into my heart. 

The clear stars fluttered, like frightened things, 
My thoughts kept pace with their fitful wings. 
The winds hissed over the purple thyme. 
And melted away in weird, low rhyme. 

I crouched by the old mill-style, to wait ; 
A hoarse owl crooned to its dusky mate ; . 
I caught a snatch of a tender song 
Borne from the shadowy path along. 

There came a lingering tramp of feet, 
Oh, my burning heart forgot to beat, 

(126) 



THE MANIAC LOVER'S CONFESSION. 127 

When, clear as a painter's picture, flung 
Out from the green holly way they swung, — 
Fond Mildred first, like a trusting dove. 
Clinging close to her ill-fated love. 

The moon flared over hei* long, bright hair, 

That glimmered upon the dusky air. 

And I saw him bend, and press her brow — 

Oh, heaven ! that picture it haunts me now. 

As on memory's wing it floateth past. 

'' Ha ! ha !" I laughed, '' 'twill be your last !" 

The cloud of her blonde hair drifted by, 
Adown the hill I followed him nigh, 
Fleet as an arrow, I gained the hedge 
That grew so rank by the willow ledge. 

I hid me under the bramble green, 
I grasped the steel, with its fiendish sheen. 
The dead leaves rustled, he paused — one start, 
The knife had entered his perjured heart. 

A red pool crawled o'er the sodden mould. 
And his breath came faintly, his brow grew cold. 
Great Mother ! ne'er had I loved profound. 
Till I saw him on the chilly ground. 



128 THE MANIAC LOVER'S CONFESSION. 

I caught his head to my frantic breast, 
Oh, I tore aside his crimson vest, 
And I shrieked to Heaven to stay that tide ; 
But the knife was sure, — he sank and died. 

I drew him in the thicket apart, 
And sifted old leaves over his heart. 
And, crouching there in the shadows, low, 
I watched the black bats come and go, 

And the fire-flies flame through the long night. 
The shadows creep o'er his face so white. 
While moonbeams stole through the leafy cloud. 
And decked his form in a pale death-shroud. 
''All mine," I said, to each ghostly hour, 
^^She little dreams of our trysting bower." 

Frail Mildred drifted to climes above; 
They say she followed her murdered love. 
Fools are they, that they cannot see 
The crimson chain that binds him to me. 

They've cased rae about by a wall of power, 
I cannot go to our trysting bower ; 
But when the wan moon shines in my cell. 
And midnight tolls from the turret-bell, 



THE MANIAC LOVER'S CONFESSION. 129 

He comes from his bed of matted leaves, 
He does not speak^ but in silence grieves ; 
I wave him back, but he will not go, 
And his life-blood never will cease to flow. 



His deathless eyes, with their brooding ire, 
Gaze into mine till they burn like fire ; 
He points to the red stain on my hand. 
Amid the jeers of a phantom-band. 

I cross myself, and I tell my beads, 
But a vague despair on my comfort feeds ; 
Phantom-hands backward point to the hour 
When I sat with the dead, in the trysting bower. 



THE OLD MAN'S PHANTOMS. 

As an old man lay in his chamber, dreaming, 
A strange, ghostly roll-call began to beat. 

And, floating out from the past, an army 
Fell into line, with slow^ faltering feet. 

An army, — a strange and motley army, — 

Faces of shadow and faces of light, 

» 

Some with their fair floating curls of amber 
And robes of purified, spotless white. 

Others were old, bold-featured, and moody, — 
Black their aspect and black their cast ; 

These he knew to be vile deeds unworthy, 
All blindly wrought in the dark, sinful past. 

^'Strange army of phantoms," the old man said, 
*' Ye ghosts of the past, both perjured and true. 

Is life a shadow, waking but dreaming ? 
Ye phantoms ! is life made orily of you? 
(130) ' 



THE OLD MAN'S PHANTOMS. 131 

" Strange army of phantoms," the old man said, 
With startling import, appalling and true, 

"By the dead past I conjure you, tell me, 
O phantoms ! is life made only of you?" 

Then the thin ranks fell back at a signal, 
And a form, bright as the early flushed blue. 

Dawned on his vision. Benignly He whispered, 
" O mortal, naught you have trusted is true. 

"Naught that is earthly, for all\s> fleeting; 

Thy ha,nds have grown weary with grasping dust ; 
Turn thee and lay up thy treasures in heaven, 

Where thieves do not trouble, nor moth, nor rust." 

Then far upward his finger went pointing. 

Till he saw above a beacon-light true. 
A voice in the" air echoed and sounded, — 

" O phantoms ! is earth made only for you?" 

Ever upward God's finger is pointing 

To the light that never glows the less true. 

He ceased to repine at earth's frail treasures, 
For phantoms with earth he finished with you. 



O ROSES, WHY DO YOU FADE? 

ROSES, why do you blanch and fade? 

Why do you blanch and die ? 

1 have grown to love your gentle ways, 

So grateful to my eye. 

O lilies, ye frail, fair spirit flowers. 

Will you, too, fall away? 
And must I live on, while day by day 

I watch my gems decay? 

Live till the cold, white fingers of death 
Have plucked my treasures all, 

While I, alas ! am left to mourn, 
The last within the fall ? 

(132) 



THE OLD MILL. 

All brown and shattered the old mill stood, 
The moss lay black on its shingles gray, 

The night-shade crept o'er its smiken sill, 
As it silently mouldered away. 

The winds moaned in at the crumbling rifts. 
And tossed the dust on the mouldy floor ; 
The sun streamed down through the storm-worn roof, 
And wove in the gloom its golden woof; 
The spider ticked in her web of gray, 
And the old mill slow crumbled away, 
• And the gloomy flags waved at the door. 

Its broken stone had long ceased to swing. 

Staring so blankly upon the wall ; 
The red mould sifted it o'er at will, 

And heart' s-ease covered it, rank and tall ; 

12 .{^33) 



124 THE OLD MILL. 

The blue-fly hummed to the silent gloom, 

And long webs trailed from the crumbling beam \ 

No footsteps fell in that voiceless room, 

Where the spider wove in silvery loom 
To the murmur of the quaint mill-stream. 

The old wheel lay 'neath the mossy flume. 

And the snails crawled o'er its slimy rim; 
The long brakes waved in its shattered case, 
The glow-worm shone in that rayless place. 
In the low light so mellow and dim. 

The flags grew rank o'er the dank, dead pool, 
^' Lamper-eels" drilled at the dam so old. 

The ''weavers" played 'mong the black' ning ferns. 
The green frogs croaked from the slimy mould. 

Brooding silently o'er its decay. 

The old mill, crumbling, went to decay 
In the shadows so moody and cold. 

At night-time, when moon-feet tread its floor. 
The bowed old miller often is known 

To steal him back to his olden chair 
And toil away at the sunken stone j 

And his ghastly lantern breaks the gloom. 

And lights up the webs in that dim room, 
At the strange hour of midnight lone. 



THE OLD MILL. 

But when the wan day-star feeble glows, 
And its beams grow coldly gray and grave, 

He fades away in his mystic chair, 
And rests again in his sunken grave. 

And when the wild night-winds howl and roar, 
And the logs burn briskly on the hearth, 

The neighboring children cite the lore 
Of the phantom miller's nightly birth. 

They shudder and creep close to the hearth. 
When moor-dogs howl to the full, white moon ; 

They list the thug of the shattered wheel, 
The roaring tide in the miller's flume. 



135 



OLD FACES. 

There is beauty in old faces, 
A softened, pensive grace. 

That early freshness fails to give 
To any youthful face. 

There is pathos in old faces, 

Whose every line is rife 
With the thrilling, ardent pages 

Of earnest, active life. 

Oh, I yearn for you, old faces, 
1 find no blank page there. 

But strange, closely-written columns. 
From brow to snowy hair. 

Long tales of storms and of conflicts. 
Baffled by tears and prayers ; 

Oh, what is youth's glowing freshness, 
To beauty such as theirs ? 
(136) 



OLD FACES. 

I turn from eyes that know no tears, 
Lips that have never sighed ; 

I turn from hearts that know no fears, 
Nor joys that blanched and died. 

They are only the false, weak blows 

That hang upon the tree ; 
They are only the helpless drones 

That shame humanity. 

Give me, then, the old face grown grand 

In brave conflicts for truth ; 
A thousand times more beautiful 

Than insipid grace of youth. 



137 



12^ 



THE BEGGAR'S DEATH-BED. 

A FULL moon clung to a purple sky, 

A waif lay under its beam to die, 

The stars winked sadly to stay their tears, 

And old winds crooned their dirge of years ; 

A waif lay under its beam to die. 

Thin and matted his silvery hair, 
But moonbeams made it a thing as fair 
As the angels' bright and blessed heads ; 
A drifting mesh of silvery threads. 
The moonbeams made it a thing so fair. 

A couch of dust, a pillow of mould. 
Out on the gloomy, the brooding wold, 
Was the only rightful earthly bed 
Where the waif could lay his weary head. 
Out on the gloomy, brooding wold. 

A vision beamed on his weary eye, 
Lying so low on the moss to die ; 

(138) 



THE BEGGAR'S DEATH-BED. 

Voices seemed calling him in the air, 
And tender eyes looked away his care, 
Lying so low on the moss to die. 

And little faces they gathered near, 
With baby graces so fond and dear ; 
They nestled upon his weary breast. 
Lisping, ^' Oh, come with us to thy rest ;" 
With baby graces fond and dear. 



The old moon clung to a haggard sky. 
When the night grew pale and morn was nigh. 
What was it that lay, shapeless and cold, 
On lowly dust of the gloomy wold. 
When the night grew pale and morn was nigh ? 

But a beggar, the villagers said, — 

Only a wandering beggar, dead. 

But, oh, 'neath that tattered, threadbare vest 

A heart of humanity lay at rest. 

Hurled to eternity, spurned, accursed, 

Of all crimes, poverty was his worst ; 

Only a wandering beggar, dead. 



139 



SPRING BIRDS. 

The air is full of the music of wings, 

Of crimson and blue and brown, 
Of quaint little wings that cleft the fall air. 

When the snow and sleet came down. 
Oh, I hear them throbbing upon the breeze, 

'Tis pulse of reviving life; 
The trees are unpacking their summer wear 

From coffers mystic and rife. 

Oh, the music of little wings again. 

Welcome, bright wanderers flown ; 
Arbutus has woven her tinted trail, 

And winter is dead and gone. 
Then sing to us, bright ones, — sing loud, sing gay. 

The frost-fiend lies low in death; 
Warble one dirge for the dead of the fray. 
The brave leaves that fell in silent array. 

All blanched by the norther's breath. 
( 140 ) 



SPRING BIRDS. 

Oh, your hearts would have broken, little birds, 

Had you heard them sigh and fall, 
Seen them clinging to the boughs to the last, 
Till the brown flag-staff of Winter was fast, — 
His white flags floating o'er all. 

Oh, glad robin, the red on thy jacket 

Was never so bright to me ; 
And, blue-bird, thy soft sapphire mantle 

It gladdens my heart to see ; 
I know you have brought all your songs along. 

To sing them over to me. 



141 



THE OLD YEAR. 

Make way, a monarch goes out to-night ; 
His sails are spread, and his ship is white, 
And he clears the pier at twelve to-night, 
Into a sea that is shut from sight, — 

A sea that is chilly, wild, and black. 
With shadows brooding above its track. 
He'll drift away from the earthly shore, 
And vanish, alas, for evermore. 

Farewell to the king who sails to-night 
Out into the moody, black m^idnight ; 
He bears away on the strange, dead sea 
Treasures most sacred and dear to me. 
I shivering stand at the pier to-night, . 
And watch him slowly drift out from sight. 

A younger form will now fill the chair 
Where the old year crouched with snowy hair ; 

(142) 



THE OLD YEAR. j^^ 



He'll bear on his knees a blotless book. 
But my heart, with homesick, backward look. 
Will oft revert to the fatal pier, 
And sigh for the old departed year. 



THE WICKET-GATE. 

When the hand of Spring smooths out her leaves 

From their viewless pods of mould ; 
And the ardent, full-sinewed Summer 

Her passion-tale fierce has told ; 
When the ring-dove plaints, in her sad way, 

Her grief to her tender mate, 
I steal to the hedge to listen 

And watch by the wicket-gate. 

When Evening climbs to the dusky sky, 

With her scarlet crayon bright. 
And traces and pencils hue and glow 

On the canvas dim and white ; 
When the stars, on glowing, restless wings, 

Like fair night-doves, seek the sky, 
I love the lane where gray shadows fall 

And moon-paths to westward lie. 

I shall hear his footsteps hastening. 
When the moon sits in the sky; 

( 144 ) 



THE WICKET-GATE. 

When the drowsy cricket's rasping song 
Floats up from the fields of rye, 

And the crimson rose, whose burning lips 
Were pressed by the wooing sun, 

Sleeps with the cool dews on her forehead, 
'Neath veil by moonbeams spun. 

I catch the fall of his hastening feet, 

By the bending clover's wail. 
When field and meadow are all aglow 

With the moon's soft, silver hail ; 
My hands are pressed in an ardent clasp, 

He murmurs, '' My love, my mate," 
Till my soul is filled with rapturous joy, 

Beside the rude wicket-gate. 



145 



13 



THERE IS NO DEATH. 

Lowly and narrow was the bed 

We made him in the clay; 
Night hung darkly over my heart, 

While all without was day. 

The old moon's haggard, faded face 
Looked from the day-lit sky, 

Like some avenging phantom cold, 
With blear and stony eye. 

Yes, low we laid him to his rest. 
Numbered his mortal days; 

Yet still I hear his deathless voice. 
And feel his deathless gaze. 

His hand seems beckoning from the sky, 
And, when my heart cries out, 

I feel his soul caress my soul, 
And fold my life about, 

(146) 



THERE IS NO DEATH. 147 

Until a strange^ vague ecstasy, 

I, borne from out my woe ; 
I feel his soul caress my soul, 

Wherever I may go. 

I hear his spirit footsteps sound 

Along the shores of night ; 
He's set a lamp within the dark, 

To guide my feet aright. 

There is no death, — the harmless grave, 

A receptacle old, 
But claims the cast-off raiment wove 

From mortal dust and mould. 

His voice is sounding through my night. 

My tears have all been shed ; 
My sacred lost are neve7' lost. 

My dead are never dead. 



THE TOUCH OF A PARTING HAND. 

Oh, softly breathe, ye bland winds of night ; 

I have no heart to be gay; 
The touch of a parting hand at morn 

Has saddened me all the day. 

The sound of a tender-toned farewell. 

The look of a tearful eye, — 
Oh, I cannot bear that all should smile, 

When I have only a sigh. 

■O ye sea, glad, summer-noted sea. 
With mosses bound o'er your brow, 

If ever ye murmured a sad dirge, 
I pray ye, repeat it now. 

I have seen ye tearing at the rocks, 
Long, amber-hued, sea- weed hair ; 

I pray, in memory of your woe, 
You'll pity my despair. 

. ( 148 ) 



THE TOUCH OF A PARTING HAND, 140 

Oh, softly breathe, ye bland winds of night ; 

I have no heart to be gay; 
The touch of a parting hand at morn 

Has saddened me all the day. 



13^ 



HE WILL NOT. ASK FOR MY SOILED 

ROBE. 

The blots that the reckless hand of sin 

Has scattered o'er my clay, 
The pale, purifying frost of death 

It shall cleanse them all away. 

An angel shall bring me forth a robe, 

And await me at death's door, 
So wondrous and so divinely pure, 

When this fitful life is o'er. 

He will deck me in its snowy folds. 
And my soiled, bedraggled clay 

Shall downward slide from my new-born soul. 
Awake to God's endless day. 

Jle will not ask for my soiled robe. 
He knows to be torn and black, 

For H^ knew the thorns were wild and sharp. 
And that mire-bound was my track. 

(150) 



HE WILL NOT ASK FOR MY SOILED ROBE. 151 

He will only see that my soul is pure, — 
My soul, that naught e'er can stain, — 

And will not love me the less, that mire 
Has on my poor garment lain. 



AFFLICTION'S MISSION. 

A SHADOWY hand came beckoning 
From the dark, moody west ; 

A little birdling fluttered out 
From my heart's cherished nest. 

A little birdling, fond and fair, — 

I had not come to see 
That this frail idol of my soul 

Was only lent to me. 

A rare germ planted in my heart 

To bloom but in heaven, 
Sent to unfold my purer self, 

This frail bud was given. 

Its helpless love, its clinging trust, — 
O Father ! well you knew 

By calling hence my soul's own prize 
You'd win fne, too, to you. 
(152) 



AFFLIC TION' S MISS TON. 

And now I see, — I understand 
What once was strange and dim. 

And humbly come to bless his name 
For woes that lead to Him. 

Through seething fires the pure gold comes ; 

Our grief sheuld be our joy, 
As through pain's crucible divine 

We part from sin's alloy. 

Have done, have done, O weary tears ! 

Come, woe ! come, grief severe ! 
Our cup in heaven is measured out 

By what we've suffered here. 

For God afflicts and chasteneth 

The favored of his love, 
And with woe's searching pruning-knife 

He fits them for above. 



153 



I KNOW. 

I KNO'w when my sky is blackest 
That somebody's sky is bright. 

And that when my day is beaming 
Somebody sits in the night. 

I know when the buds are bursting 
And golden beams gild the air, 

That, while I am wrapped in summer, 
Winter is brooding somewhere. 

And to give flowers to my summer, 
That somebody's buds must die; 

And to furnish my bower with doves. 
That somebody's doves must fly. 

I know while my loved are spared me 
That somebody's loved lie low. 

And the hand that has blessed me 
Has dealt some other a blow. 
(154) 



/ KNOW. 

I know when my being boweth 
In thanks for his mercies chaste, 

That somebody's soul is pining 
For the bounties which I taste. 

Thy ways are past understanding ; 

But thou art a God of love, 
And all that is vague to us here 

Will be made plain up above. 



155 





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